Shoulda Coulda Woulda
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: The Girl Next Door tag: He feels bad about Amy, but not for the reason Sam would think.


**Shoulda Coulda Woulda**  
K Hanna Korossy

_"Look, you don't trust her? Fine. Trust me, Dean. Please." _

He should've argued it. Maybe said it wasn't about trusting Sam, or just that he couldn't promise anything. After Dad's final words, after Ruby, after Hell, Dean wanted to be done with secrets. He'd always hated lying to the people he loved.

But.

For Sam, leaving Amy alive really was a matter of trust. Somehow in his head, he and this Amy chick were both the same kind of freaks, _managing it_, as Sam said. To put her down to keep her from killing again, to pay her back for the lives she'd taken, would've felt to Sam like Dean's judgment on him, like Dean giving up on him.

So Dean said "okay."

It wasn't about lying to Sam. It was about...people being who they were. They didn't change. Amy would always be a monster who ate people's brains. Sam would always be that idealistic kid who saw the best in everybody: a demon, his brother, his first crush. And Dean would always be the guy who would do anything for his little brother, including kill. And then protect his brother from that kill.

He didn't have to fake the smile as be pulled up in front of the motel and found Sam waiting with a smile of his own.

"You got what you needed?" Sam asked, climbing into the car.

He meant meds. "Yup." Dean didn't. "You ready for dinner?"

"Biggerson's?" Sam asked wryly.

"Dude, two words: pie bar."

Sam laughed at that. And that alone made it worth it.

00000

_"You will kill again." _

_ "I won't. I swear."_

He could've left Amy alive. The thought lingered the whole trip.

They'd never made it to Spokane to meet Bobby. About a hundred miles in, Dean had gotten a call from Jeff about a potential hunt in Michigan. Dean had been ready to turn it down, when Sam figured out there was some kind of bone specialist in Detroit who should take a look at Dean's leg. Which still ached, yeah, he just didn't think about it. But Sam was like a dog with a bone, so one conversation with Bobby later, they were turned around and heading for Dearborn.

Dean tried not to think about the last time Sam had taken him to see a "specialist," a faith healer with a reaper on call.

He'd done a search for "Jacob Pond" that evening when Sam was in the shower, confirming that the kid had relatives. Probably more brain-sucking monsters, but Dean wasn't going there. One call masquerading as CPS, and he confirmed that the kid had made it safely. Maybe in ten years, he'd turn around to find Jacob waiting for him with a gun, but like Uma in _Kill Bill, _he'd offered the kid the possibility. Revenge was a potent survival drive. Besides, Dean seriously doubted he'd be around in ten years.

Sam came out of the shower toweling his mess of hair, and one glance at Dean—now clear across the room from the laptop—had his eyes narrowing.

"Y'all right?"

"Yeah," Dean said quickly. Then, deflecting, "Leg's kinda stiff." It wasn't a lie.

He expected Sam to get bitchy and point out just why they were seeing a specialist the next day, but instead his brother softened. Dean resisted an eye roll as Sam stepped closer. "Lemme see."

"I'm not letting you look at my leg, perv!"

Sam did roll his eyes, then shoved Dean over like he was nothing. Stupid Sasquatch. "I'm just gonna loosen the muscles. You want me to end up driving all the way?"

That silenced Dean. He lay back and grudgingly let Sam massage his leg. He wasn't about to admit how good it felt, though.

He could've let Amy live. She'd saved Sam's life once, after all, which Dean wasn't likely to forget. She had a kid. Sam trusted her not to kill again. And Dean's gut agreed that she'd meant it, from the little time he'd spent with her.

But she'd killed to save her son's life, and if it came to that again in the future, Dean had no doubt she'd do it again, best intentions or not. Because it was what he would do to save the person he most cared about.

They'd tried this before. Let "vegetarian vamp" Lenore go. Tried to give that rugaru Jack Montgomery a chance. Attempted to cure Madison and help Ava and Andy and work with a demon. And it always ended badly, always. Sam tried to forget that, lumping himself in with all those poor sons of bitches he tried to save, but Dean saw it clear.

Except when it came to Sam. Then he just refused to look. Whether Sam was the kind of freak other hunters would chase was irrelevant: he was Dean's brother, and that would always be the only thing he'd see.

His bones ached under Sam's long fingers, but the muscles gradually relaxed. Dean resisted a pornographic groan at the relief and gingerly tested his leg. The cast probably would've been good to keep on another week, no matter how fast he tended to heal, but he could live with this.

Sam was watching him questioningly, and Dean threw him a lazy grin. "You should use those magic hands on a girl, Sammy."

His brother made a face, but turned away smiling, pleased.

Dean could live with this.

00000

_ "I see the way you look at me, Dean, like I'm a grenade and you're waiting for me to go off... It's okay. Say it. I've spent a lot of my life trying to be normal, but come on. I'm not normal. Look at all the crap I've done, look at me now. I'm a grade-A freak. But I'm managing it. And so is Amy."_

He would've told Sam later, maybe over some beers to grease the way. Secrets had a way of not staying secret, and Dean wanted to control this one, to let Sam down easy at the right time. The kid would be mad, but hopefully he could forgive Dean before too long.

That was the plan until 6:30 the next morning.

His first response when he woke to Sam's movements and saw the ridiculously early time was to grumble at Sam and then roll over and go back to sleep. And then he heard what Sam was doing.

Rocking. Sitting on the edge of the bed, mattress squeaking and covers rustling in a decidedly not fun rhythm as Sam rocked back and forth, right thumb pressed into his left palm.

Dean clumsily rolled out of bed—friggin' broken leg—and sat on the side facing Sam, their knees nearly brushing. He leaned forward, slid his hand under Sam's left wrist.

"What's going on, Sam?"

"It's not real," he realized Sam had been chanting almost soundlessly under his breath as he rocked. "It's not real."

Dean rubbed his thumb against the inside of the wrist, pressed gently at the heel of the palm below Sam's squeezing thumb. "What's not real?"

Sam shook his head, hair sticking to his damp forehead, eyes blown with what Dean would've sworn was pain if he didn't know better. "Fire. The... 'S cold. Adam's screaming."

Dean hid his wince. Another brother he'd let down. "There's no fire, Sam," he said calmly. "Just you and me in a crappy motel room in Dearborn, remember? The wallpaper _should_ be burned, but there's no fire."

Sam swallowed, nodded sharply, and Dean relaxed a little. The kid hadn't completely lost track of reality since the warehouse, since he'd nearly shot Dean, but Dean knew that didn't mean the hallucinations had stopped. Sam still regularly flinched from things Dean didn't see, tightened his jaw against noises and taunts Dean couldn't hear. Knowing they weren't real didn't stop Sam from feeling and fearing them. He was _managing it_, enough that Dean trusted him completely at his back, but Hell if he knew how Sam did it day after day.

He eased his thumb under Sam's, loosening the tight grip. The gashed palm had healed, only a scar left now, and Dean knew that didn't actually hurt unless Sam dug his nails into the flesh. It was just the psychology of the thing, and while he didn't begrudge his brother anything that might help, Dean had his own form of distraction.

"Hey. Sam. Look up. Look at me."

Sam shook his head like he was confused, then peered upward.

His bangs were in the way, and Dean brushed them aside, ignoring his brother's flinch. "That's good. Keep them right here." He pointed to his own eyes. "You see me?"

Sam was staring at him now, and as Dean watched, his breathing slowed from its pant. Dean just watched him steadily.

Sam had told him this back at Rufus's cabin, when they'd talked about their respective Hells until they couldn't do it anymore. He'd said that Lucifer had been skilled at mimicry, copying everyone Sam had ever loved, the Impala, Bobby's place, even various motel rooms. He'd been convincing, too...except for the eyes. He never could get the eyes exactly right, at least not for those few people Sam had known well. Because the Devil could never make something truly good, and the depth of emotion in Jess's and Bobby's and Dean's eyes was beyond him. Sam would've seen it in the warehouse, too, if he hadn't been so worked up by then.

Sam kept watching him, hands clasping Dean's wrists now. His skin was damp, his pulse racing within their grip, but slowing, steadying. He took a few long breaths, and his eyes cleared.

"Okay?" Dean finally asked.

Sam's nod was tremulous but honest.

"Okay. You wake me if it happens again, okay? You need it, you come to me."

"Yeah. Okay." He was embarrassed now, the moron. Dean swiped a hand over his head, grinning when Sam slapped it away. As if they had anything they needed to hide from each other at this point.

Well, yeah, except for _that. _

Dean bent to fish his duffel from under the bed and stood stiffly. "Since we're up so early—and you're buying coffee, man—you wanna get a start on the case before we go see the doc?"

"Sounds good. You want donuts, too?"

Dean looked back at him. "Do I ever _not _want donuts?"

"Point," Sam conceded. Dean didn't miss the quick, cautious look he took around the room, but judging by the easing of his shoulders, it was clear. Thank God for small favors.

He dressed while Sam did his ablutions, idly checked his bag and then the weapons duffel before departure. His gaze lingered on the knife on top, the one he'd used on Amy.

He would've told Sammy, swear to God. Still would one day, maybe, once they were out of this current crapfest. But Sam was so fragile right now, clearly hanging on to sanity by a thread no matter how well he claimed he was _managing. _And Dean knew that thread was him. He wasn't about to fray it, not right now.

Sam came out of the bathroom juggling his shaving kit and laundry. "All yours."

"Thanks. Make sure you get some jelly-filled."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Take your gun with you. And your phone."

"Anything else, Dad?" Exasperated now.

Dean grinned, raised an eyebrow. "Look both ways before crossing the street?"

He ducked into the bathroom before Sam could chuck something at him. Huh, maybe his leg was getting better.

Dean looked himself in the eye in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. Yeah, he'd had sucky choices, but he'd chosen right. Sam probably wouldn't see it that way—okay, Sam definitely wouldn't see it that way—but then, Sam always saw gray where Dean saw black or white. Monsters: black. Family: white. And Dean himself... Dean spit into the sink, wiped his mouth, and gathered his stuff, leaving the room without a backward glance. He was and always would be the line in between.

Whatever color that was.

**The End**


End file.
